гавайская пицца

The bass booms as if there were a tram constantly running through your head - and at the same time, you want to go out into the night with empty pockets and a cardboard crown. Here, incompatible things are mixed together: dreams of a Ferrari and the habit of drinking from an ice bucket, proud bravado and a soft weariness from constant hunger - not for food, but for life. Awkward pride coexists with the desire to give your last rubles to the vagrant on the corner; it's like talking to your reflection in a shop window, which both laughs and cries.

The music is like a diary filled with short lines: a little absurdity, a little philosophy from the transition, a couple of lines about pizza and dominoes, and suddenly a revelation that “rocks all the moon craters.” This whole mixture sounds not like a scientific plan to conquer the world, but like a warm, slightly hoarse photograph of the night: ironic, tired, and endlessly alive.